


Magnum Opus

by frontierpsychiatrist



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Slash, Slow Burn, Spoilers, mindgames
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-26 18:09:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1697645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frontierpsychiatrist/pseuds/frontierpsychiatrist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Great Work of alchemy; a process of personal and spiritual transformation.</p><p>The changing of one thing into another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IT BEGINS.
> 
> In this chapter, Chilton fails at flirting.
> 
> Credit to Veni (pinthetailonthehonkey) for beta-ing.

Will Graham first met Dr. Frederick Chilton at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. It was an imposing building, its domed roof more reminiscent of a mosque or church than an asylum. He followed Jack up the front steps, past marble pillars and through the front entrance. 

Will always felt nervous going into those places; he was on edge as soon as the doors shut behind him. The hospital was built of all white brick and metal, and the smell of antiseptic and floor cleaner made his head ache. An orderly greeted them and led them to a door painted in dark blue with elaborate gilt edging.

"Jack Crawford from the FBI is here to see you. And Will Graham," announced the orderly as the door swung open to reveal Dr. Chilton.

Will observed him. He couldn't help it; his mind was a microscope. Everything about Dr. Chilton was an affectation. His beard and hair was landscaped in way that required regular maintenance and he was dressed in a navy suit, similar to what Hannibal Lecter would wear. It was all in the details: the subtle sheen of the material, a pocket square folded as sharp as origami, leather shoes like dark mirrors.

Will absorbed the information within seconds. He also noticed (because he couldn't fail to notice anything) that the doctor made his own observations. Chilton's eyes flickered over him, taking in Will's messy hair, glasses, and wrinkled shirt. Will shifted under the scrutiny.

"Thank you for agreeing to help us again, Dr. Chilton," said Jack.

"The pleasure is all mine. Do come in." Chilton held the door open, watching them as they crossed over the threshold into his domain.

The office was as ornate as the front door. Leather bound scholarly journals lined the walls, their titles in gold lettering. There was an antique painting hanging above the fireplace (never used), and a decanter of whisky on the table (frequently used, probably expensive). It was all calculated, Will thought, to project an image of "the distinguished academic."

Dr. Chilton held out a hand. Will reached across and shook it, masking his reluctance. They were soft hands; the most manual labor he ever saw was paperwork.

"Dr. Bloom just called me about you, Mr. Graham - or should I call you _Doctor_ Graham?"

The condescension in his voice was almost as offputting as his cologne. Will found it distasteful.

"I'm not a doctor."

"You're not FBI, either, that's a temporary identification."

"Mr. Graham teaches at the academy," Crawford interjected as he reached across to shake Chilton's hand.

"Ah! A teacher!" Chilton gave an indulgent smile, which Will did not return. His flattery was neither subtle nor welcome.

The doctor gestured to the chairs in front of them. "Please, gentlemen, take a seat."

They both sat down and Jack leaned forward to address the man.

"Dr. Chilton, we're going to need to see the crime scene while it's still relatively undisturbed. With as much privacy as you can provide."

"Ah, yes - that _thing_ you do." His gaze fastened on Will, his smile widening. "You're quite the topic of conversation in psychiatric circles, Mr. Graham."

“Am I?” Will dug his fingernails into the hard leather of the chair.

"Oh, yes," he said, "A unique cocktail of personality disorders and neuroses that make you a highly skilled profiler."

Seeing that Will looked as though he was about to leap across the table and tackle the doctor to the ground, Crawford decided to interrupt.

"He's _not_ here to be analyzed."

"Perhaps he should be." Chilton glanced between the two of them. "We are woefully short on material on your sort of ... thing, Mr. Graham. Would you mind speaking to some of the staff?" He rose from the desk and walked towards Will, who shrank back in his chair.

"I don't think-" Jack began.

"No, no, no! Not this trip!" said Chilton cheerfully as though he was discussing an outing to the park. "Maybe a special visit."

Will rose from his chair, and stared Chilton down coldly.

"Thank you, Dr. Chilton, I'd like to see the crime scene now."

* * *

 

Will emerged from his trance with a gasp of indrawn breath. He could still taste blood in his mouth and feel the adrenalin throbbing in his veins. The emotions were a cloud of radiation hanging in the room. The nurse's terror and desperation mingled with the killer's remote power.

Part of him began to think that Dr. Chilton was right. It was two years since Gideon was admitted. Two years since the Ripper killed. But more than that - the heady rush, the sense of playing God - that was something unique to the Chesapeake Ripper. The performance was the same, but _different_. There was something off, but he couldn't tell what it was as he could barely hold his breakfast down.

He put his glasses back on with shaky hands; a migraine was now in full bloom. It felt like he was being lobotomized; a red-hot wire inserted behind his eyeballs. An aura shimmered in his vision, blocking out half of Crawford's face.

"I th - I think that's all I can give you for today, Jack."

Jack nodded. "All right then. I think that'll be all for today, Dr. Chilton. Thank you for allowing us to do this."

"You're quite welcome to visit any time."

As Will walked through the door, it seemed Dr. Chilton felt compelled to have the last word. "It was fascinating to see how you work, Mr. Graham. Perhaps you might accept my offer of a special visit? A short one-on-one interview of course. I wouldn't want to impose."

Will spared him a momentary glance.

"I don't find you that interesting."

* * *

 

From the window, Chilton watched Will Graham walk down the steps and get into the black SUV that waited for them. The car drove off, setting autumn leaves scattering. Although he would never admit this to anyone, the man's dismissal had stung.

When he had learned that Will Graham would be visiting, he'd been giddy with excitement. Will Graham was fascinating in person. He had a disregard for personal appearances, a blunt approach to questioning, and a marked avoidance of eye contact. He was attractive, in a disheveled sort of way. Chilton had entertained the thought of being able to interview Graham, perhaps over several sessions, run some tests, write a paper. But no, Dr. Lecter would be the only 'authority' on the mind of Will Graham.

Chilton poured himself a glass of whisky and downed it, grimacing at the burn.

 


	2. 1.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Chilton goes fishing for information. He's not very good at it.
> 
> Credit to Veni (Caitlin) for beta-ing.

The next time Will Graham met Dr. Chilton, he was an inmate.

His stint in emergency care was a formless amalgamation of memories, as they treated the encephalitis that had set fire to his mind. It was littered with holes, as if wasps had built their home there, their legs skittering on the inside of his skull, pulling out the nerve endings one by one.

The most he could remember from that time was white walls, the sting of an IV, and the taste of blood in his mouth. He also had a few distinct memories of Hannibal - the familiar scent of him, the feel of a hand pressed against his forehead, and the blurred shape standing at the foot of the bed. Later, when he was conscious, the nurses told him that Hannibal had visited every day to check up on him. _What a good man_ , they said. _What a loyal friend._

Once he was recovered, they sent him to the _other_ hospital. The FBI had escorted him to the van in handcuffs, emerging into a burst of noise and flashing lights from the waiting pack of reporters.

When they'd checked him in for the first time, they took his clothing, his old plaid shirts and jeans, even his glasses. They couldn't afford to take chances, not when Abel Gideon had managed to undo a pair of handcuffs using a fork tine. He was placed in the maximum-security section of the asylum, the cold, concrete underbelly of the place. It contained a wireframe bed, a toilet, and a sink. Through the steel bars, he looked out onto a brick wall. No sunlight, and no fresh air to lift the dead space.

Jack and Alana came to visit him. They told him he had killed half a dozen people, that he'd done it because he was unwell. Will didn't know what to believe. Some days he was so convinced of his guilt that all he could do was lie there and wish for a decent length of rope. He could remember committing every one of the murders in his mind. He could walk through the scenes as an observer and see every rusted flake of blood under the fingernails.

Other days he was convinced of Hannibal's guilt. Those buried memories were fragmented and strange, and he felt like an archaeologist unearthing jumbled bits of pottery from time periods that didn't match. There were memories of a confrontation in a darkened kitchen, of chasing after beasts through snow and forest, and Abigail lying on the floor, her blood bubbling up through his shaking fingers. He failed her. On those days he wished for a decent length of rope, so that he could put it around Hannibal's neck himself.

 

* * *

 

Dr. Chilton paused outside the door to the interview rooms. He needed this moment to prepare for what would be his first interview session with Will Graham.

He pushed the door open. Will sat on a metal chair in a cage at the centre of the room. He looked haggard and unshaven, dressed in the blue uniform of a patient, with wrists shackled with handcuffs. His eyes followed the doctor as he entered. Chilton stared him down. It was important that the patients knew he was the boss. He had to own the room, use dominant body language otherwise they were unruly. The threat of power was the only thing they respected.

He walked down the steps, one at a time, cane clicking on the marble. "Well, Mr. Graham," he said, "It's a pleasure to see you again. Though I never imagined it would be in circumstances like these. I finally understand why you refused my offer to test you. You knew I'd see right through you."

Will stared back at him with unnerving stillness and Dr. Chilton knew he was going to be trouble. It was in the eyes. Most psychopaths had the dead-eyed look of a shark, and if you made contact for too long it felt like being sucked into a black hole. Eye contact with Will was uncomfortable, but for a different reason. When the man looked at him, he saw all of himself reflected back, exposed. Like a bug pinned to a piece of cardboard.

"Hello, Frederick."

Chilton flinched before he could stop the reaction. The last time someone had called him 'Frederick', he was holding his own organs in his hands.

"As long as you're in my hospital, as my patient, you are to call me Dr. Chilton." He tried to maintain his air of dominance, but he was sure it had little impact on Will.

Will did not reply as Chilton sat down in the chair opposite, withdrawing a black notebook and a fountain pen.

His eyes darted to the cane resting by Chilton's side. "That must be painful. Was it Gideon?"

"We're here to talk about you, Mr. Graham, not me. Let's start with why you're here, shall we?" It was important that he maintained the doctor-patient relationship.

"They say I killed a lot of people."

"And did you?"

Will gave a hideous approximation of a smile.

"You tell me."

"The evidence says you did,” Chilton retorted.

"The evidence says whatever the Chesapeake Ripper wants it to say."

"Oh?" Chilton leaned forward, and withdrew a photograph. He waved it in front of the bars. "What about Abigail Hobbs? What did _she_ say to you?"

Will drew back. Something in his expression shuttered off. Chilton sensed, with glee, that he had poked at an open wound. And now that he had found the wound, he knew where to rub in the salt.

"As I recall, Mr. Graham, you threw up her ear." 

"I'm not talking to you, Frederick."

Will Graham sat back in his seat and shut his eyes. From that point onwards, he refused to talk.

* * *

 

The silence lasted another two weeks and Dr. Chilton was frustrated. During every session, Will drifted off into his own mind, a place he couldn't follow, so he had to make do with observation. But even that was disappointing, as all he did was sleep like he hadn't slept in years and was making up for it. Occasionally his sleep would be broken by a nightmare as he tossed fitfully on the small bed. That was interesting, at least.

When he was awake, he would pace back and forth in his cell along the same strip of floor in a figure-eight motion or sit on the bed and stare at the wall. Chilton had even removed his book privileges, in the hopes that Will would start talking out of sheer boredom, but so far – nothing.

Will was being taciturn as usual as he was brought in for session number three.

"Mr. Graham, you're continuing to waste my time.” Chilton tapped his fountain pen on the blank notepad he held in his lap. “But you're going to have to face what you've done sooner or later. Does it make you feel like you have some modicum of control when you ignore my questions? How does it make you feel, playing hard to get like that, hmm?"

No answer. Chilton saw the familiar expression that Will made whenever he retreated into his mind, and he gritted his teeth. "I said how does that make you _feel_?"

Will's eyes snapped open, taking Chilton by surprise; his first instinct was to move back in his chair. A smirk played across Will's face and Chilton realized had yet to see a genuine smile from the man.

"Like I'm sitting in a dunking tank, and you're lobbing softballs hoping to make a splash, but you keep missing the target."

 _Oh, very funny, Mr. Graham_ , Chilton thought. "Fortunately, I have time for a few more lobs. You are in my hospital. You're my patient now, Will."

"I'm not talking to you, Frederick. I want to talk to Dr. Lecter." Chilton snapped the notebook shut.

"That's Dr. Chilton to you. This session is over."

That was the other thing: Will persisted in calling him Frederick, despite telling him over and over to use his formal title. “Dr. Chilton” was an esteemed psychiatrist, head of one of the most prestigious facilities in the country, a doctor of note in his field, with many academic papers to his name. “Frederick” was a small, lisping child, who got the teeth knocked out of his head behind the gymnasium.

It made the hair stand up on the back of his neck when he addressed him by his first name. Abel Gideon had also liked to call him that, as if they were colleagues or friends, as if his incarceration in a high security prison was by his own design and he could walk free any day if he chose.

* * *

 

Will was standing in a river, casting the line of a fishing pole out long. It flashed as it caught the light. Fishing was a game of patience. It worked on a variable interval schedule of reinforcement. You never knew when the fish would bite, but you could increase your chances with the right knowledge. You had to know the right bait, the season and time of year, the habitat, for the type of prey you were trying to catch.

Here, in this place he had recreated from memory, it was quiet with only the cool flow of water and leaves on the breeze. But something was wrong, even here where it should have been safe. There was a tug on the line.

He pulled hard, reeling it in. Black horns breached the surface of the water as the creature rose from the depths. It wore the skin of his face like a mask.

 


	3. My apologies.

Dear readers,

This is a very long time to leave people waiting.

I had several chapters, up to 10, written. I lost many of them when my computer died and I had to reinstall my OS. I have also been quite unwell for about a year, and unfortunately I don't have the energy to continue with this fic at the moment. So it's another casualty of my ill health and crippling perfectionism.

However, this doesn't mean it's entirely abandoned. Some of the chapters are probably floating around in emails still, or scribbled in hieroglyphics on bits of paper. S3 of the show is looking promising. (Richard Armitage as Dolaryhyde!! Reba McLane! Molly!) So I may return to this fic at a later date and try to complete it. 

Perhaps it will be better then.  
I'm very sorry.


End file.
